Unbreakable
by Tiquismiquis
Summary: All he had to worry about was a war and a woman. Unsurprisingly, it was the woman that caused him the most frustration. (FrederickxCordelia. Kind of.)


_Author's note: just a random one-shot about the time between Frederick and Cordelia's A and S supports._

* * *

He considered himself an unbreakable man.

He had to be. Lord Chrom would be let down, otherwise. Frederick had to be made of sterner stuff than the others, had to be ceaselessly, indefatigably, meticulously unbreakable. With Lady Emmeryn gone and Chrom's marriage fast approaching, especially, he'd had to be as solid as his own armour, as strong as his own lance, for Chrom and for everyone. And really, how could he find an excuse not to? His troubles were nothing, compared to Lady Lissa's tears for her sister or the tactician's failed memory or the way Lon'qu shook at the mere idea of a spar with Sully or Sumia. All he had to worry about was a war—and knights existed for war, did they not?—and a woman.

Unsurprisingly, it was the woman that caused him the most frustration.

Cordelia never could understand how beautiful she was. It wasn't just comeliness or that long red hair; it was something honest in her eyes when she made a vow, something strong in her arm when she raised her lance. He knew he wasn't the only man to think so, and sometimes feared that so many suitors and attempts to court her had made her reticent, and afraid to accept such interest as genuine. But he would do his best. By now he'd come to accept that his feelings for her were as unbreakable as the rest of him.

They sat in a gazebo she'd found, on the outskirts of a small town where the army had stayed the night. He'd felt hope buoy his heart as she pulled him there, her smile wide, insisting that he was too closed—an unbreakable wall of a man!—and he surely needed her to confide in.

He would tell her, he'd decided as she released his hand, and they sat. He'd declare his feelings right there at high noon, no hesitation, no fear. She _must_ be interested in him if she had brought him so far away to discuss love.

And love was what it was. He'd known it for some time, now. Months upon months, if he was being honest, for he was afraid to recognize it as love, at first, when he had once been younger and had once understood how simple infatuations fade.

Love was different. It was holding her innards together as she bled out on the desert floor, screaming for Lady Lissa most improperly, because suddenly his unbreakable fantasies of children and grandchildren and waking up as an old man to see her wrinkled face on the pillow beside him were crumbling, spilling out with her life. It was understanding, as she came to train the squires for a day at his request, that _this_ was a true knight, a true _woman_, truly _Cordelia_. It was letting her hold his hand the entire way to a small white gazebo, fingers laced, watching her mouth as she laughed for the first time in days, and knowing he would do anything, _everything_ in his power to make her happy. She was so rarely happy.

Perhaps he already knew why. But it was so much harder to hear her say it.

"Me first, right?" she asked with a sigh. "That was the deal? I must tell you everything?"

"That is correct. If you tell me all your love troubles, I'll tell you all of mine." He pushed her hair behind her ear while he hesitantly added, "I'm sure by the end of this we'll feel much better."

"I'll need to hold onto you," she whispered. Before he could ask what she meant, she latched onto his shirt and buried her face in his chest, unarmoured for the first time in days.

"What is the matter?" he asked in surprise, arms raised but held stiffly, only halfway to circling her.

"It's Lord Chrom." Her shoulders began to shake; dampness began to sink through his shirt, the dark stain listing to the left. "It's _always_ been Chrom."

He froze, a lifetime of etiquette and martial training leaving him completely unprepared for how to react.

"He has all of me and he doesn't even realize. Why won't he love me, Frederick? How can he look at me and not see that my life means _nothing_ without him?"

"A great sacrifice was made so that you could have your life," he told her, trying to sound reprimanding and failing. The words were gentle as they left his lips, for he had been so grateful for that sacrifice.

"I don't deserve it. He's to be married within the week, and I don't know if I will be able to perform my duty as I should—would it not be scandalous to envy his wife, to look upon a married man with lust, to protect his children and wish they were mine? I should have died, Frederick. I'm not allowed to feel this way, and I've tried so hard to stop, but I can't manage it."

Her hands snaked around his waist, clutching him tighter. He wrapped his arms around her too, and rested his chin on her hair, and managed a stiff, "There, there."

She told him everything, just as he'd made her promise when he agreed to accompany her on this trip, although after a while he heartily regretted doing so. Everything Chrom did that made her love him all the more, descriptions of his hair and voice and arms that Frederick hardly needed, lurid dreams and unfulfilled desires and frustrations and insecurities. Loving Chrom had made her hate herself, and for the briefest moment, Frederick resented that. Not Chrom himself, never his dear lord—but the idea that his eyes could pass over someone so perfect every single day and never look back, until she felt more imperfect than anyone.

"You must be strong," he told her, although by this point he felt rather ill, himself. And to think, he'd been about to confess his love! "Our liege is happy. It is up to us to support him."

"Give me a moment, please," she whispered. "Once we get back to camp, during the wedding, during all of it, I'll be the strongest and most supportive person there. But for right now, I can't bear it. For just a little while, let me be weak."

He tightened his arms around her; the motion was fluid, natural. They fit well together. As he thought about how to proceed, he brought a hand up to sift his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. The sigh she breathed against his chest told him the gesture was not unwelcome.

"Take as long as you need, Cordelia," he said finally. "I will be strong enough for the both of us until then."

"You can't possibly. This love that I feel will not ever stand down, not completely. It's uncompromising. Unyielding."

"And that is the same sort of strength that I possess. I will be here for you."

She pulled his hand out of her hair and kissed it.

His breath hitched.

Later, as he walked back into town—alone, for Cordelia had long since run off to compose herself—he realized a fundamental, natural problem.

There were many kinds of strength. And his, the stiff and the steadfast, like a rigid branch in a night storm—

It was, despite its efforts, the easiest to find broken in the morning.

* * *

_Author's Note: I'm sure a lot of people got this already but I want to clarify the traditional significance of kissing somebody's hand: it was originally meant as a sign of respect, admiration, or **devotion** (and became a romantic gesture eventually for the obvious reasons—respect for a woman's status, admiration of her beauty, or devotion in love). They state in the game that Cordelia is a martial prodigy, making her technically more admirable than Frederick, and his position of knight-commander isn't high enough above hers to warrant a kiss to the hand. If she were ever to do it to him, it would most likely be as a wife to her husband. It's an odd thing to do for someone who is just a friend._

_Anyway, that's that. Feedback is cool (concrit especially)._


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